Nothing But Trouble
by Xia Sarrasri
Summary: A Dramione Fic of the highest calibur: Houselves! Quidditch! Fiendish plots! Humour! Angst! Romance! Farce! Coffee! Hermione! Draco! An actual PLOT! and that's just the summary...
1. Chapter 1 Tea And Coffee

A/N:-Hi! Come, read, and review! Enjoy! 

Disclaimer (for entire story, will not be repeated to save boring you): - characters, save Professor Tam, not mine. Duh. Otherwise, a work of art! Lol.

Xia

**Nothing But Trouble - Chapter One**

Hermione grimaced as she crossed out an error on the Potions homework they had been given that day, the first of the September term. Professor Snape was irritated by leniency.

Hermione dislike intensely the experience, with special regard to the subsequent aftermath of, making mistakes – which was why she was grimacing. That and the thought that she would have to look at that scribble for the rest of the essay.

It disagreed with her love of control – which would explain why she was still here, sat up late on the first day back at Hogwarts after a strange summer, and trying to regain some sense of normality.

So, lists, then.

Things Hermione Liked included:

- Doing Things Right

- Organised chaos

- Knowledge – particularly the hidden kind, of late

- The thought that maybe Ron and Harry would buckle down and she wouldn't spend this year studying alone

- Coffee – which she was thirsting for now, as it happened.

Oh coffee, God of my sins.

_Wherefore art thou, coffee?_ The unholy lack of the aforementioned substance screamed at her – so she fell out of the chair – quite a feat given that the chair in question was one of those located in the Gryffindor common room, so large that some people had been know to attempt to take out real-estate claims on them.

These people of course, being known to some as 'those lads who enchanted a headboard emblazoned with 'Die insert obscenity here die!' to attack anyone who voiced the words 'Filch' and 'nice guy' in the same sentence' (many kind-hearted Hufflepuffs had suffered – for they had been the only ones nice/stupid enough to ever put the two together. Even Slytherins had enough sense to distinguish between someone they enjoyed to see torturing others, and someone who was in fact a 'nice guy')'. They were known to Professor McGonagoll mostly as Another Migraine, to the general student body as 'Uh ohh - here comes trouble' and to their mother as 'Fred! GEORGE!' Or to a confused Harry during Christmas in first year as 'Gred and Forge'.

Hermione's love affair with the caffeinated one had begun during the lead-up to her third year exams – or more specifically the incident where she had fallen asleep and missed Charms – which had been on Cheering Charms, which had been on the exam, on which she had only gotten 110.

She had vowed never again to fall asleep during the school day.

So, coffee. Rubbing the small of her back – an unfortunate side effect of the fall from the chair-cum-mansionwithfourstoreyroofgarden, Hermione half-walked, half-floated on the wings of blissful caffeine hallucinations towards the kitchens.

Please let Dobby have coffee…

She tickled the pear to open the kitchen's painting, and waited for it to swing open.

It didn't.

Frowning, Hermione tickled the pear again, somewhat more insistently.

Still nothing happened.

Tenativeley, she knocked on the painting – a hollow echo sounded beyond its wooden back, confirming the continued existence of the passage (you can never be too careful with these things in an enchanted castle).

'Dobby?' she called.

Suddenly the painting swung open – but it was not Dobby's pair of bulging eyes that materialized.

Hermione blinked. Twice.

Winky blinked back. And then the former Crouch household's servant (or as SPEW would have it – slave) curtsied to Hermione, and asked:

'Is there something Winky can do for Miss Granger? She is very sorry, but Dobby is not here – he is cleaning the classrooms with the others. Winky has been left to look after the kitchens!'

Winky actually went a bit pink at this last statement – _pride?_ Thought Hermione.

'Oh, yes, sorry Winky – I wasn't expecting you – not that it isn't a _nice_ surprise–'

Hermione felt a little taken aback, considering the last time she had seen Winky, the house-elf had been, well, a little the worse for wear… Maybe Dobby had managed to bring her round after all.

'Would you happen to have any coffee, at this time of night?' she enquired.

'Of course, Miss Granger!'

Then Winky looked startled, and stricken:

'Oh, Miss Granger – Winky is forgetting the manners – please come in and Winky will make Miss Granger's coffee most well!'

Still faintly bewildered, Hermione followed the bustling Winky into the kitchens – past a large hearth to a slightly larger, darker, and even more battered version of The Burrow's oak kitchen table.

'Which would Miss Granger like?'

Winky invited Hermione's gaze to a row of glass jars with contents in varying hues, russet-brown to jet-black. Hermione scanned the various labels – which read things like 'South Africa', 'Himalayas', 'Cuba' and 'Jamaica', as Winky prepared a kettle of water.

Coming to a decision on a jar called 'Eastern Asia' with a rich chocolate colour, Hermione reached up to it. Winky fairly fell on her –

'No, no, Miss Granger! No-one but the house-elves touches the food and drink before it is sent to the tables!'

The elf let out a large breath and took down the jar. Hermione watched her intently as she tapped the lid of the jar, sending a crackle of blue light around the seal, which duly popped open.

_Some kind of preservation charm? Clearly a house-elf thing_, she thought.

She was curious as to the reason for the house-elf's change of heart – Hermione had thought Winky would never come to terms with the loss of her former household – but here she was, contently brewing coffee.

Only one way to find out.

'Winky,' Hermione began, with slight hesitation

'I was just wondering- and tell me if it's impolite to ask, why it is, that, um, now, that is.. after, I mean…'

Winky saved her the embarrassment of more fumbled words by cutting in:

'Why Winky is now doing her duties?'

Hermione looked up into a pair of wide and not unkind eyes.

'Well, yes' she said.

'Winky is a house-elf again'

She smiled and put the made coffee on a tray with a sugar pot and a small, turquoise jug of milk.

'But surely, you never stopped being a house-elf – I mean, isn't that what you are?'

Winky added a plate of biscuits to the tray and carried it over to her charge, laying it in front of her before popping herself on the stool opposite.

'No no, Miss Granger – I had no family to work for, so I was having no work to do, Miss! Because – ' a momentary shadow passed her face 'because the old family had gone, Winky could do nothing – and _wanted_ to do nothing, Miss! Winky was nothing more than a creature, then' Her face broke into smile.

'But I thought Professor Dumbeldore had offered you a job?' Hermione frowned in puzzlement.

Winky actually giggled.

'Oh no, Miss Granger, that would not have been a _home_! Later in the summer – Professor Dumbeldore came to Winky again, and offered Winky a new family – the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!'

'Oh, Winky! So you're a slave again?'

'No no, Miss Granger! Winky has a home again now, and she will like serving her new masters and mistresses!' She beamed.

'But, erm, Winky, what about the, err, Butterbeer?'

Winky's look darkened for a moment.

'Professor Dumbeldore said Winky must not drink butterbeer again, because it makes her 'funny'. Just in case, he turned all the Butterbeer into – ugh - 'She shuddered

'_Lemonade._'

Hermione frowned for a minute, before remembering that Dobby had once said that house-elves hated carbonated drinks – so Dumbeldore preferred that they should serve pumpkin juice instead.

She added sugar to her coffee and took a sip, sighing with blissful relief.

The house-elf beamed at her pleasure, and began to tell her about the coffee's origins, and where one could find Ginger Crackers at this time of year.

So Hermione spent a fair hour, and afterwards migrated up to her bed – to dream of deep Arabian nights and Winky making beds of Egyptian cotton.

Draco Malfoy opened his eyes. And closed them again – silently rolling over. A knock at the door broke through the thick black curtains of his bed (green was supremely distasteful to him this season).

'Wake up, Malfoy. That animal of yours, Goyle, has been through my trunk looking for food and if you don't deal with him then I will – and I'm warning you now, it won't be pretty. If I have to curse him into next Thursday you'll be one goon down on your next run-in with Potter – and I'm not filling in – so I'd advise you to sort it, and _quickly_.' Nott's barely strained voice cut off the idyll.

Draco sighed and sat up, drawing his long legs up in front of him and leaning his head on one side on his knees.

He had been dreaming about a princess whose eyes burned like fire, somewhere in the East. He remembered the way her hair had smelled like jasmine… It had been a good dream. How laughable, a Malfoy dreaming of fairytales!

Well, he supposed he'd better extract Goyle from yet another grubby little mess before Nott dismembered him – though it might be a little too late from that, considering the measures Nott took to protect his personal belongings, let alone the nature of those belongings themselves.

Draco separated himself from the cotton sheets – Egyptian, of course, only the best for a Malfoy – and drew himself out of his bed.

Besides, the younger Malfoy mused, he felt no particular desire to hear the dulcet tones of his father reminding him not to offend their favourite Dark Lord's left-hand man – or, indeed, to feel the back of that very same father's hand.

Albeit true that Lucius was more Child of Darkness where Nott was Neighbour Of The Beast; Nott Junior, son of the afore-mentioned terrace-dweller, nevertheless felt a pressing need to pull imagined rank from time to time.

Thinking all this had got him successfully to and from the bathroom, clothed in a more charming black – fully prepared to kick, push, or otherwise violently coerce a dim-witted crock of Butober pus back into line.

Yes, that was Goyle – a great cure for acne (you don't get spots on a face Nature deemed too cruel even to be placed upon and innocent animal – so she chose a Slytherin instead) but stank most alarmingly of dung.

A Malfoy strode from his room, stopped abruptly in the centre of the Common Room, and barked – 'Goyle!'

Something hairy limped from a cloaked recess in one of the room's many corners (Slytherins, Draco had found, are often fond of crannies).

It appeared that either Nott's trunk had had a rather nasty Trolinatus Jinx placed upon it at some point in space or time, or Draco had spent too long picking out a tie to wear stylishly scruffily around his neck.

He had gone for pearl grey in the end.

The man-boy cocked an eyebrow at his hapless henchman and said smoothly:

'Get to the Hag in the Infirmary, Goyle, and as punishment for your greed and utter, _utter_ stupidity, I will not fix your potions when you inevitably cock it up in Potions this week.

You will instead be subject to the wrath of one Severus Snape – nice man, I'm sure you remember him – we have in fact been exposed to him for five years now – and hopefully in future you will learn, with that dust-mote sized cranium of yours, to keep your fat, and henceforth servile, fingers out of things that do not belong to you. Your mantra forthwith will be

"I do not deserve the breath Draco Malfoy has just wasted on me" and you will rile me no further.'

He stressed the last two words so as to avoid any confusion. There was only so much Goyle's elusive 'brain' could absorb in under a minute. Draco looked on in bored disgust.

'Now, get thee to a nunnery or something.'

He waved the unfortunate oaf away, trying to comfort himself with the thought that next time Goyle might at least lose a limb.

Nott emerged from his room – one similar to Draco's in their hierarchical lodging system (another of Salazar's mementoes) – as Draco rubbed a temple.

'Why bother with the eloquence, Malfoy? It's not like he'll a) understand, or b) remember after his natural 33-second memory-expiry anyway. I'd have just kicked him up to the Astronomy Tower and let him find his own way to the Infirmary from there.'

'It all stems from my desire to help those less fortunate than ourselves, combined with my tireless campaigning for world peace and inter-house harmony, Nott.' Draco did not even look up.

'Don't curb your sarcasm on my account.' Was the reply.

'Surely even with your attention span you've grasped from the fact that you see no First, or indeed, any, years in the general vicinity – and from the collective sigh of wind as they all slithered out as soon as I emerged, that I am not a morning person. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and beat my head against the brick wall that is Arithmancy.' Draco said with a visible shudder, beginning to walk out of the Common Room towards the Great Hall, still talking to himself –

'And from there, onto the vast wasteland of Transfiguration, with the miraculously barren-yet-still-a-wet-fish woman (if she could be called that) McGonagall…'

Toast and Marmalade with black tea – Earl Grey – beckoned Draco to his House table as he entered the Great Hall still muttering quietly under his breath.

When two Hufflepuff third years walked by staring, he shut up.

Seating himself at the table a small way off from the giggling girls of a non-specified year group, Draco pulled the Earl Grey and toast towards himself.

One sugar, one slice, thinly spread marmalade and the taking of time to smell the bergamot, listen to the crunch and taste the warmth of the toast.

So he had rituals – what of it?

Draco knew better than some that sometimes that's just what you need to get you through the day.

From the Gryffindor House table, Hermione drained the last drop from her coffee cup and casually scanned the other tables. She didn't think it was co-incidence that her coffee was the same luscious one she'd had last night, and made a mental note to thank Winky.

Ginny sat with of her own year looking a little the worse for wear at being back at school and thus not allowed to sleep in until noon everyday.

Hannah Abbott and Justin Finch-Fletchley looked solemn in conversation at the Hufflepuff Table, until Hannah suddenly burst out laughing. Apparently it was the wrong thing to do as her outburst was quickly covered by a 'coughing fit'.

Hermione smiled and glanced at the Slytherins – observing in the process a rare sight: Draco Malfoy with his eyes closed.

He appeared to be inhaling deeply. As his white blond eyelashes fluttered ever so gently over what Hermione could only assume was the smell from the china cup in his hands, a tiny smile played on his lips.

Hermione's curiosity was caught.

He slowly opened his eyes – and it was a considerably softer shade of grey than she'd seen there before.

His gaze slid in her direction – and she found, to her intense discomfort, she could not meet his eyes.

Switching her gaze downwards, she stood hastily. Picking up her bag an Arithmancy textbook, she made her way to the door – absolutely not thinking about whether he'd noticed her looking at him.

Past the one eyed witch and up the two right-angled (sometimes) staircases, Hermione opened the door to her Arithmancy classroom – and groaned, remembering that he sat behind her in this lesson. Now she just knew she'd be paranoid about his eyes boring into her back.

She was first there, as usual. Truth be told, Hermione actually found Arithmancy quite difficult – not boring, but no longer easy either – and the last thing she wanted was another distraction. Padma Patil's shrill exclamations that she 'got this bit!' were to say the very least overrated seeing as Padma was a Ravenclaw and in truth 'got' everything about the class – she just like to boast about it so Blaise Zabini would notice her.

Hermione snorted as she set her book down on her desk and began to unpack her quill.

'Attractive.' Remarked a dry voice from the doorway.

Hermione turned to see one Draco Malfoy, hands in pockets, posing on the oak frame.

She thought about saying something – and then decided against it.

Let the git get his satisfaction somewhere else.

Turning her back, she returned to her Quest for the Inkpot, thinking that for once she'd actually quite like it if Harry would cut the moralistic crap and give The Git what he thoroughly deserved.

Mental note: next time, do not restrain Ron when in carpe jugulem mode.

Alternately visualising Malfoy-blood splattering the floor and Professor Tam observing that someone would have to mop that up, and experiencing crippling paranoia about whether the said Malfoy was really staring daggers at her back or whether she was just imagining things ensured she learnt nothing about Protection Polygons all lesson, and left her totally frustrated.

Professor Tam was talking:

'…that concludes our first lesson on Co-ordinate Charms. There will be a test on everything you have learnt the fortnight before the first Hogsmede visit, so I hope you've been paying attention!'

Hermione blushed involuntarily.

'Since we've finished before time, I see no reason why you cannot leave early – but be careful not to disturb other classes.' She continued.

In other circumstances Hermione would have stayed behind to catch up on what she hadn't heard during the time she'd been daydreaming – but today she welcomed the chance to escape any room with Draco Malfoy inside it.

It had been an odd sort of morning – maybe it wouldn't hurt to take Ron and Harry's advice just this once and 'let it slide.' She could always catch up from the textbook later, she supposed.

Sighing, Hermione trudged to Herbology, in somewhat lower spirits than the previous night.

Damn Malfoys – nothing but trouble.

Fin

Well there it is! Hope you like, do review (be gentle, this is my first foray into so called 'dramione' territory!). Oh, and I forgot to say at the beginning – this fic in its entirety (and should I ever get it finished) is for my darling Becki, who has educated me, for better or for worse, in the ways of the sacred dramione fic :) much with Australia love, my friend!

_Coming Up:_

Philosophy from Hermione Granger

Nott plays a game

Draco has a bad day

Hermione has Herbology

Two run-ins and a memory.

Be excited!

Xia


	2. Chapter 2 Herbaceous Carnivores

**Nothing But Trouble – Chapter Two**

Hermione had done a lot of thinking over the summer between her Fifth and Sixth years. Some of that thinking had been about Sirius.

His had been the closest she'd come to death, and its effects.

Her own grief has been numbing – to the point where it felt like something inside of her had collapsed – some foundation, stability.

Somehow everything had been like a game before – now she understood what Harry meant. This was serious.

Because everything and nothing had changed, she could not, for once in her life, even begin to conceive of how Harry was feeling. She suspected he had lived through it before because he had not known how not to – but now he knew both how and why not to. All Hermione could do right now was to watch him – there weren't any words that would mean anything, or be the right thing to say. Uselessness was not a feeling she coped with very easily, not being used to it.

But the summer had changed a something inside her – all of a sudden she'd noticed the moments of extremes that happen so unremarkably. The ones so frequently missed, she thought, where everything was perfect – either because it was beautiful or because it was awful – but perfect nonetheless.

She'd figured out, too, why it was she loved learning – it was because she could do something, and suddenly there were millions of possibilities. She appreciated that she was able to do things other people weren't, and she had decided not to waste that. Since they were no longer playing games; she wanted to see how far her abilities went.

Perhaps it was not altogether safe to try and test her limits – but she thought Sirius would have been proud.

It was a fortnight into term, and Nott was playing a game. The game was called 'Push Zabini To The Edge Of His Sanity', and Nott loved the game. He played it a lot – in fact, he was getting quite good at it.

Transfiguration was a necessary evil to Draco. Every lesson he had to sit (or rather sprawl artfully over his chair) and listen to this game of Nott's. If he'd been in a better mood it might have been moderately amusing, but the incident with Goyle this morning had put him out of sorts, and the repetitiveness of the activity irritated him.

As did McGonagoll's tapping. Constantly. He swore that woman had compulsions of some sort.

Draco sighed and tried to return his attention to his work. The piece of parchment in front of him read only 'Theory of Human Transmutation' and a few phenomenally dull lines on Partial Parts Transfer.

Not only had they not come on to any practical whatsoever yet, they did not even begin to study full Animagi until halfway through the next year – and then it was only a superficial study.

To his mind, this was just cruel – taunting them with elaborate names that sounded interesting but then turned out to be a complete waste of time appeared to be a favourite past-time of that dried-up old bag.

He sometimes thought she kept the one truly interesting thing she could teach them about to herself just for fun! But what a thing to learn – and if anyone knew surely it was her – how it felt to become a completely different species.

Did it hurt? How long did it take to perfect? What could go wrong, how could mistakes be avoided? Exactly how was it actually done? And most of all – he tried not to daydream about it, romanticised as it seemed – but what would he be?

He quite liked the idea of something dramatic, like a lion, or eagle, or elegant like a gazelle. It might be a snake – but the idea didn't really appeal to him greatly. Potter was a Parselmouth after all, and he didn't particularly want the Boy Who Should Never Have Lived At All making a pet of him.

Perhaps a bird – he did love to fly after all. Never a water-creature though, he'd always thought that if Longbottom had anywhere near the aptitude to transfigure more than a toenail of himself, he'd become a fish. Or perhaps a pot of geraniums.

Nott laughed loudly – Zabini kept ducking from side to side and it appeared Nott had enchanted an inkpot to spill its contents over his housemate if he moved. Unfortunately the fool had yet to figure out that motion was the trigger and since he was developing a nervous twitch from Nott's numerous and inventive tortures, that knowledge wouldn't have done him much good anyway.

He knew what Nott would be if he ever mastered enough will power for the purpose – a Blast-Ended skrewt. With any luck he'd prefer it to his original form and stay that way.

_And a good thing it'd be too_, thought Draco, leaning on his hand to block out the spectacle in front of him. Skrewts are difficult to kill, but at least you wouldn't have the Forces of Darkness on your tail if you managed it.

Mostly Draco was bored. If only they were studying something useful or interesting it would be less bone-achingly dull and he might – _might _– find it in himself to pay attention. With the way things were at present, with that old crackpot running the school, there was about as much chance of that as Nott spontaneously growing a sunny disposition while Crabbe and Goyle chatted about Advanced Arithmancy eating tea and cakes and Granger, oooh, maybe breaking a nail? No, the Great Dumbeldore would never allow anything to be taught that might bring harm to his precious Potter.

He rolled his eyes returned to 'Partial Parts Transfer…including the mutation of facial features'.

That's what he'd like to do to Potter – mutate him 'til he had a thousand lightning scars all over his face…

_Right, that's enough,_ he told himself. He was vexed enough without thinking of the little piece of scum when he wasn't even in the lesson.

'The mutation of one or more facial features to resemble or otherwise imitate the behaviour of an animal/vegetable/mineral must be precise due to the physical nature of the senses…'

Draco had only gotten to notes on uses of mutations by the end of the lesson;

'For instance, the Bubble Head Charm could be said to link in with this as it mimics the protective reflexes of the Pigmy Slugard on the African coastline.

However, since the species is relatively unknown in the western countries and the development of the Charm had roots in the 'Extreme Quidditch' of the late 1800s…'

He felt thoroughly discouraged. How was he supposed to progress to what he wanted if it was taking this long to work through all the pointless rubbish? Draco was not a naturally patient person but he thought he'd been doing quite well to keep his temper this long. He made up his mind – he would ask McGonagoll what they would be studying next in the hope that if he got through this then something, _anything_ else would come quicker.

As his classmates exited, Nott pushing Zabini out of the room, Draco eyed the front desk. He wondered how best to tackle the problem that now arose – how exactly to approach McGonagoll for help. It was like he did this often, he wasn't Granger after all…

'Yes, Mr Malfoy, why are you lingering?'

Well, that sharp cut comment-in-lieu-of-question seemed to call for the direct approach.

'I wanted to know what we are planning on doing next lesson, Professor.' he said with as much courtesy as he could manage, though he was unable to keep the slight hint of acid out of the final word.

McGonagoll glanced at him suspiciously but moved to her desk nonetheless. A tap of her wand and the ensuing flurry of parchment unearthed a timetable upon which spidery letters squabbled for space. The woman most politely referred to, in the Slytherin common room at least, as 'The Bag' glared at the characters, which promptly scurried to settle in their proper places. She looked up;

'You shall be studying Limb Exchange in the next lesson, and Centaur and Mermaid Myth together with the historical necessaries in the coming week. Will there be anything else?' she enquired coldly.

'No.' Draco returned, equally icily.

As he walked out of the classroom, he gave in to the urge to groan. That was a lot of pointless rubbish for one subject, he thought. Well, he'd read the textbook but something extremely drastic would have to happen before he actually went looking for something to bore him out of his skull even more.

Thank God for lunch times, the thought to himself as he strolled toward the Hall.

Hermione winced and sucked her finger. The prick she had sustained from her somewhat vicious Warbleweed would need a salve of Beeswort – or was it Cottlesap? She shook her head. The plant wasn't poisonous per sae, but would bring up an unpleasant rash is left untreated, not unlike a certain Malfoy she could mention.

Usually working with Neville was a blessing – but for the fact that perennials seemed to get a bit excited around him. 'Playful nip' was not the term Hermione would use – this miraculous Herbaceous Carnivore had tried to take her arm off. They were supposed to be tame! She suspected Dean Thomas has been experimenting with caffeine and horticulture again.

She was jerked out of her reverie by Neville's appearance between the fronds of his beloved foliage.

'Oh, thank god, Neville! This one got a little…'she squinted at it '…spirited.' Neville looked at the plant, which appeared to be trying its hardest to look innocent. Hermione rolled her eyes and began to pack away the rest of the equipment. Professor Sprout made her way over to them – stopping on her way to help a harassed looking Ron wrestle his Warbleweed back into the tiny pot provided.

It seemed Neville had been over-generous on the fertiliser for that one, looking as it did like the plant version of Goyle – only of course Warble weed grew mostly in woodland habitats, not with one hand in a biscuit tin.

'If you've finished, Miss Granger, Mr Longbottom, you may go back to the castle as it appears the rest of the class are lagging…' Professor Sprout said.

'Thank you, Professor – I think I'll go, if that's okay with you, Neville? I want to get off early anyway' She said, knowing Neville would want to stay with his treasured plants for as long as possible.

'Sure, see you later, Hermione!' He replied with a sunny smile, half-absorbed already.

The girl left the greenhouse grinning. Halfway across the lawn back to the castle she slowed her pace, beginning to regret having left so early. She cast a glance back – but there was no sign of anyone filing out. Given the amount of dirt Ron's Weed had cause the neighbouring groups to become adorned with, they would be coming out for some time yet.

Still, this might be just the opportunity she'd been looking for. Best start now if she wanted this to work… That in mind, she hurried indoors and up to the library. She shouldered her way eagerly enough through the accumulating crowds not to notice a certain blond someone striding equally purposefully in the opposite direction.

THWHACK.

'Oomph! Sorry! Sorry, didn't see…' she looked up and trailed off, eyes hardening as they met those of one Draco Malfoy.

'Granger – did they curse you with clumsiness, or is it a Muggle trait?' he pronounced the word like an obscenity. As always.

Though Hermione's hand, which had gone automatically to her pocket, curled around her wand, she kept her face cool, pursing her lips – if she had worn glasses she would have been looking daggers over their rims at him in a faintly McGonagoll-esque fashion. All she said was;

'Grow up, Malfoy.'

Then turned on her heel, and left.

Draco spread his arms wide in a gesture of open disregard, allowing himself an extra moment of satisfaction to drink in the tensed back of a retreating Granger.

Mark one to Malfoy – perhaps this term would be so bad after all.

A fuming Hermione pushed open the door of the library rather harder than was really necessary. The noise this caused was the reason for the This-Is-A-Library-You-Know-For-Books-And-Silence Look that Madam Pince the librarian was famous for, and was also currently giving to her.

Hermione silently cursed herself and kept walking, flashing what she hoped was an apologetic look at the librarian. The last thing she needed was to be thrown out of here.

She hurried on, toward the Transfiguration section. At the very end of the row she came to what she was looking for, checking the titles twice against her crumpled list, though she knew them by heart. To quell the thrill of adrenaline she felt as she took down the two dusty volumes, she thought to herself _– this is the first step – there's plenty more work to be done from here…_

Deliberately casually she wandered back over to the desk. She placed the books under Madam Pince's scrutiny for stamping – but the librarian did not bat an eyelid, and stamped both books without hesitation. Hermione could not suppress a smile as she left the library, and thought

This is just the first step…

It was days later when Hermione left the library after another lunch spent poring over dusty manuscripts. She was nearing the end of the first, and she tried to forget, only legal, phase of her plan.

She hurried on – with two armfuls of books, her usual shoulder hitching motion was proving somewhat difficult – and she just prayed she could get to Potions before she dropped absolutely everything.

This did not prove to be the case.

Rounding a corner with too much haste, Hermione collided with a turnstile.

Spinning out like a top, she had the strange sensation that she had gone back through a portal to Blackpool and at any moment her parents would rush to pick up the six year old bush of hair and scold her for not listening to their advice about playing by the gates.

Draco was sent hurling back into the cold stone wall. All the breath knocked out of his lungs, he experienced one of those rare elongated moments – he could feel the wall's rough texture beneath his spread hands and though he knew he was in Hogwarts and he was seventeen, he remembered abruptly the time that Nott had 'accidentally' pushed him out of the second floor window of the leaky cauldron.

A cushioning charm from the quick-thinking Tom had spared him any real damage, but the fall had still winded him. The next thing he remembered was running footsteps, and a hand in his, pulling him to his feet – looking up a half-exhaled breath caught in his throat as the mess of chestnut hair and chocolate eyes confronting him smiled shyly, and placed a darling kiss on his cheek. He heard the soft sigh of a curl – or was it her eyelashes? – as she drew back. He held tight onto that breath as he watched her retreating back all the way down the alley, round a corner, and she was gone.

She must have been around the same age as him, and that could only have been eight or so.

Then Tom had bustled out and returned him to the Cauldron, and he had forgotten all about that little girl, until now.

Only, Hermione's turnstile had arms – she knew it because she had seen one of them fly out in a graceful arc, as if in slow motion. And arms implied legs, too, and a torso and a face –

She pushed herself back off the wall, looking up.

The sight that assailed him was a flushed Granger on the opposite side of the corridor – apparently she had been flung as far as he by the impact – his gaze travelled down to the books, quills and general paraphernalia scattered over the floor between them.

A title caught his eye – 'Advanced Transfiguration' and another – 'Eye for an Eye – Identity Spells'. There was a small black volume too – it looked like a diary of some sort, or a notebook – Granger, a diary type?

Draco looked up –

Pale grey met chestnut brown.

Hermione felt like her stomach was suspended somewhere three feet from the rest of her body. She put it down to the lack of breakfast, because it was simply not feasible that Draco Malfoy's eyes were the cause of this effect.

She knew that she looked completely disarmed – and she knew it was only for a moment – but some moments took so long to pass…

He could have sworn there was something familiar in those eyes, that he didn't see every day, something that was not from _Granger_…

Then the world fell from its suspended state back into being, and Draco realised that this staring simply could not be allowed to continue.

He cocked his head to one side, adopting an expression that said simply 'So?' He added a faint hint of belligerence just for good measure. She broke the gaze.

Later Draco would remember it as looking down the corridor in a sultry, uninterested way, but now he continued to watch her as she knelt, scooping the items within arms reach into her retrieved school bag.

He made a slight movement to her and her wand was out before he could blink (which he did), her eyes flashing with a fierceness he had not known she possessed.

'Try it.' she challenged.

'Rash move.' Draco was cool again, an appraising eyebrow cocked.

'Did they curse you with that toxic attitude, or is it a Malfoy trait?' Hermione spat guardedly, her wand still trained on him.

'Touché, Granger. I was leaving' he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. He made no attempt to leave.

'Potions is that way' she gestured with the wand, eyes never leaving his face. Draco's foot gently rolled a pot of black ink towards her.

'Ink, Granger. Some of us don't carry seven spare pots around.'

She still looked distrustful, as though a Slytherin could not be trusted with a pot of ink, let alone a wand. Her own inkpot hit her knee, and rolled away, ignored.

He gave her a sardonic look and strode off in the direction of the Slytherin quarters. Hermione did not lower her wand until he had disappeared from her view.

He really was the most obnoxious git, she thought, hurrying to pack away the rest of her things – she was already late and the last thing she needed was to give Snape a valid excuse to dock Gryffindor points. She quickened her pace in the direction of the dungeon.

She was glaring at him when he re-entered the classroom, inkpot in hand, defiantly green and adorned with the Slytherin House crest. Due to the lack of similar looks and vaguely threatening gestures from her vicinity, Draco guessed that Little Miss Perfect had not told Potty and the Weasel of their encounter.

He shook the pot at her, and she predictably furnished him with a withering look, turning back to her notes.

An excellent start to the afternoon all round, really, Draco thought, allowing himself a small, yet undeniably toothy grin.

'Please, Malfoy, term only just begun and you're already giving us the  
I've-just-done-something-really-nasty-I'm-so-clever smirk!' Nott drawled from behind him, groaning theatrically, hand to brow.

Draco's smirk only widened into a full-scale Wolfish Grin.

'I'll bet it wasn't even the first today, was it? Tch, Malfoy, you'll wear yourself out – you won't even have any left for Parkinson at this rate.'

He straightened and nodded regally to the seat beside himself.

Draco's acerbic nature compelled him to make the merest of simpering lip-curls before he got the urge to stick pins into a wax figure of Nott under control. Parkinson! She was disgusting. But then, he supposed she was a Slytherin, and not a _filthy_ little Mudblood.

Time to change the subject, he felt. Sighing exaggeratedly, he brushed a speck of non-existent dust from his already immaculate robes.

'Sometimes, I do wish we didn't live in dungeons. So dirty, you know, and lurking does get monotonous after a time.' He muttered, arranging himself in the customary lounging pose, with a curt nod to Snape.

'I wouldn't let our dearly beloved head of house hear you say that – lurking happens to be one of his favourite pastimes, don't you know' Nott commented, in a conversational tone.

_That and dressing up in women's clothing,_ said a voice in Draco's head, but there was a line which no-one crossed around a Slytherin. They were, after all, slithering, lying little things, as prone to back-stabbing as Proffessor Trelawney was to the 'odd' glass of cooking sherry.

He shot a glance at Granger. No doubt she was still shamed into silence about their little run-in.

She appeared to be entirely focused on her notes – practical Potions lessons had decreased in number somewhat since the incident with Longbottom's twenty-fifth cauldron.

He knew Granger held him personally responsible for that one. The fact that none of the Slytherins had actually had anything to do with it really compounded the humour of the whole thing.

Draco suspected the Headmaster's hand in the decision to reduce opportunity for mishaps – Snape would gladly have sacrificed a few Gryffindors to freak Potions accidents.

As, reflected the heir to the Malfoy estate and all _that_ implied, would any good Slytherin. Still, he made a mental note – however embittered he became, never to take the job of Potion's master at Hogwarts.

Hermione battled to keep herself perfectly still. Any shift in her apparently studious position might give away her nervousness to that git, and that, right now, was the last thing she wanted.

_Stupid girl!_ she told herself, longing to get away from this musty dungeon where there was no air, _to let a annoyance like that get under your skin, when there are much more important things to be getting on with._

Ron prodded her.

'Are you all right? Snape just mentioned exams and you didn't even blink, let alone start rummaging for your planner like you normally do.'

Hermione gave him a half-hearted frown.

'Yes,' she sighed. 'I just ran into the Malfoy on the way here. Nasty little shock that gave me coming around a corner, I can tell you.'

Ron swivelled in his seat to glare with full intensity at Draco.

'Git.' He muttered as he turned back.

'Well, you wouldn't really want to run into him on a dark night, would you?' drawled Harry.

'Unless of course you had a knife with you, and then you could do the world a favour and finish the little slime ball off.'

The two boys seemed to enter an elaborate shared daydream at this point, and Hermione practically had to snap her fingers to wake them up. She had the feeling a good portion of what they talked about on their own was what they'd do to Malfoy if they ever got the chance.

Not, according to Draco, that Potty and the Weasel ever would get a chance to inflict on him whatever torture it was that they were collectively imagining.

She had cracked, then, and told her beloved boys all about how Big Bad Draco had taken Poor Little Hermione's rattle.

Just because she had been smiling when she'd strolled around that corner like her birthday had just come and she'd been given a big stack of boring books.

And honestly, those dunderheads would believe anything she told them – it wasn't like she couldn't defend herself.

On top of which, he hadn't even _done_ anything!

So all in all, Draco felt quite hard done by in this equation – how Granger got to put two and two together and get the eternal suffering of the Malfoy household, while he could not even boast about his triumph over her because Nott's warped and slightly unhinged brain made it impossible for him to take anything involving X and Y chromosomes that had happened out of sight as anything other than rampantly sexual. Which it was most certainly _not_!

How had this happened? How, when one moment he had been having a perfectly nice time gloating over her imminent humiliation, had the little Mudblood gotten the better of him the next? And with not so much effort as a flutter of eyelashes on her part.

It was disgusting, and he commanded himself to rise above her

_Mudbloods can do what they want, I don't want them anywhere near _me, he told himself, at last settling to his blank page.

At which moment the bell rang.

Draco fought to keep from screaming, until he could calmly, even disdainfully, command Crabbe to bring him Parkinson's notes. The simpering Pansy proffered them up as if to be taken to a minor deity, staring at Draco with a slight line of saliva dribbling from the corner of her mouth.

Typical Parkinson, she couldn't even give the ego a boost – just looking at her blatant idolization made him feel violently sick, and he wasn't at all sure that he could keep his lunch down.

Consequently he did what all good Malfoys do in times of crisis – swept regally out of the room and disappeared to a very safe place, where no-one would find him unless he wanted them to.

Hermione watched him turn up his nose and stride from the room like a displeased dictator. Quelling the urge to spit after him, she nonetheless felt relieved. Something inside her loosened, and the feel of the cold sweat she maintained was from the weird combination of freezing humidity of the dungeon lessened.

Walking just as swiftly as he had, both to keep up with Ron and Harry, whose Quidditch practice she had promised to watch now in their free period, and to get away from the clammy lower layers of the castle as quickly as possible, she made her way back to the Gryffindor Tower.

Damn Malfoys, she thought as she doubled her pace at the thought of him – nothing but trouble.

Well! Chapter 2 over. That was fun. Not much happening I know, but fear not!

_Coming Up: _

S.P.E.W.

Near heart attacks

Suspicion

Filch and an impersonation

Dungbombs

Draco Malfoy in nothing but a towel

Don't miss it!

Xia


	3. Chapter 3 There Was A Little Girl

Nothing But Trouble – Chapter Three: There Was A Little Girl...

After watching Ron and Harry's triumphant Quidditch practice (Ron was steadily improving, though still patchy) Hermione trooped up the stairs behind them to the Griffindor Tower.

She had spent most of the time reading 'Eye for an Eye' which she had nearly finished, and making notes in her black book – which, of course, had been magically spelled and bound by the most powerful spells she could find so that only she could read it. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it right. Hermione Granger did not lack determination, whatever that entailed.

So it was that she tried not to run up the stairs to her dormitory and collect the large pile of knitted hats she had prepared over the summer.

Taking a deep breath as she re-entered the Common Room, she walked over to Ron.

'Hey, Hermione, want to play chess?' he exclaimed through a mouthful of the pumpkin pie that he and Harry had filched from the kitchens on the way up.

'Honestly, Ron, it's nearly lunch, why bother?' she knew better than suggest he wouldn't be able to eat any of the meal, Ron's seemingly bottomless stomach was infamous.

He grinned at her, spraying crumbs in every direction. She grimaced and wiped a bit from her shirt.

'I want to put these around the Boys' dormitory, and if I do it later you'll all just move them again.' She stated, gesturing to the hats in her arms.

'Oh, 'mione, not that again? I'll do it, give them here.' He replied.

'No! I mean, I can't be sure you really _will_ do it, you never really took S.P.E.W. seriously, and Ron' she mimicked a beseeching face 'it really _is_ important to me.'

He heaved a sigh and hefted his gangly self to his feet.

'Hey, Harry!' he hollered across the common room where the boy in question stood talking to Dean Thomas about Muggle football.

'Play chess with me when I get back down, will you?'

Harry groaned theatrically at his imminent defeat, and Ron grinned.

'Come on, then' he told her, striding off in the direction of the staircase.

As they entered the room, furnished much the same as the girls' in red velvet, but much, much messier, Hermione looked around herself, eyes appraising.

'Right.' She turned to Ron. 'You, out, now.'

'But Hermione! It's _our_ bedroom, the _boys'_–'

She put on her best teacherly voice:

'No, Ron, I know Harry doesn't agree with it and he'll just take them all away again if he knows where they are. And you'll tell him at even the slightest push, I know what you two are like. So _go_, Ronald!'

She must have sounded so like his mother that he hung his head and left the room.

'And the door.' She added, without turning.

It shut obediently.

Hermione let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

_Now for the hard work._

She quickly hid the hats any which where – that hadn't been what she had come here for.

Then she ducked her under Harry's bed, pulling out his trunk. A good thing it was already so messy, she wouldn't have to worry about putting everything back exactly right.

Nothing, even when she checked for a false bottom. Clearly he'd hidden the thing she was looking for elsewhere – maybe under Ron's bed?

She looked. It wasn't in his trunk either.

Without much hope she checked under the other boys' beds, predictably finding nothing.

Frustrated, she pursed her lips, hands on hips facing Harry's bed. She'd guessed he would have tried to keep it hidden after the many times his room had been broken into, but _where_ could it be?

The leather bound album on his bedside table caught her eye. She could have sworn it was thinner than that…

Suddenly it clicked.

Where better to hide something that had belonged to his father than under his father's image? She carefully opened the book, perching on the edge of his bed, and froze at the sound of Ron's voice.

'Hermione? Are you done yet, I mean, I don't think Harry will look _that _hard…'

She breathed a sigh of relief, and gave her heart a moment to stop pounding before she replied.

'Only a couple more, Ron! I won't be long.'

_I hope_, she added silently to herself.

She turned her attention back to the open book in her lap. Flicking through the pages, she found what she was looking for approximately halfway in. There – what looked like pages from the outside was actually a solid box.

The 'page' that topped it framed the photograph of Lily and James Potter's wedding, complete with all the marauders, waving merrily at her.

She felt a twinge of guilt looking at it, and tried to stop her eyes from blurring at the sight of Sirius laughing and smiling. He tipped her a wink – the daredevil and excited child she remembered again.

She smiled a homage back at him. Determination refreshed, Hermione Alohamora-ed the page – it flipped over to reveal the hollow compartment, containing, as she had known it would, the silvery fabric of the Invisibility cloak, neatly folded and topped with Dumbeldore's note.

She hoped he would have approved of her, but did not know, when she could not be sure she approved of herself.

'Hermione…' Ron's plaintive voice came through the door again, breaking her reverie.

'Just one more, Ron.' She tried for a singsong voice.

Quickly, she took out the folded cloak and replaced the note in the book. Walking to the window, she took out her wand and whispered

'Wingardium Leviosa!'

The cloak floated gracefully through the open window of the Girls' dormitory.

She returned her wand to her pocket and opened the door. Ron, who had been leaning on it, fell though the threshold and sprawled at her feet.

He picked himself up, beet red, and muttered

'I'm fine.' to no one in particular.

Hermione raised an eyebrow and followed him back down the stairs, trying not to laugh.

A strange sight met them in the Common Room as they descended – apparently Harry and Dean had been trying to teach Seamus how to play Muggle football, but the Irish boy hadn't quite gotten the idea, and kept deflecting the ball with his wand. The ball was now zooming around the room as if possessed, and ducking it had turned into a game of its own.

'Catch it, Ron!' yelled Harry from behind one of the high-backed chairs.

'Yeah, come on Ron, you're Keeper!' shouted Seamus.

Ron happily ran to attempt the request, Hermione unnoticed and forgotten.

Whish suited Hermione perfectly right now.

She mounted the stairs to her own dormitory, and almost had a heart attack at the door.

Lavender Brown fondled the cloak that Hermione had gone to such trouble to procure.

'Oooh, Hermione, isn't it beautiful!' She cooed. 'Whose do you suppose it is?'

'It's mine.' said Hermione, perhaps a little abruptly.

'Oh, where _did_ you get it? May I try it on?' without waiting for a reply, Lavender swung it over her shoulders.

Hermione looked as if she might be sick.

Lavender started over to the mirror, completely oblivious to the fact that only her head was now visible.

'No!' Hermione's strangled squeak popped out, hand outstretched.

'Why ever not?' Lavender turned to her in surprise.

'It… makes you look fat!' Hermione burst out.

Lavender instantly looked hurt.

'I'm sorry, but you really wouldn't want to lower your self-esteem – you look lovely in a lot of things, but that just isn't one of them.' She continued briskly. She ignored the inner voice, which countered; _she doesn't look lovely because you can't **see** her!_

and swept over to Lavender, smoothly taking the cloak off her.

'My… aunt made it, shame really, looks nice off but terrible on.'

Lavender still looked slightly injured, but she did not question the statement.

_I have to get rid of her_ – thought Hermione, so she used the only weapon she knew of that would dispatch people within seconds.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out… a badge.

'Have I told you about the new S.P.E.W. project, Lavender?' she enquired, as innocently as she knew how.

Lavender's expression switched from mildly affronted to fear-for-your-life in an instant. With a garbled excuse, she backed speedily out of the room.

Cloak in her arms, she sank onto her bed, and just listened to her breathing calm down for a full minute.

That could have been very messy.

Now to hide it somewhere of her own, in preparation for tonight, and she knew the perfect place. She opened the wardrobe in the corner – smiling grimly she took down the hideously lurid pink jumper Mrs Weasley had knitted for her birthday last March.

It had a use after all, she thought, tucking the cloak inside it and replacing the jumper at the bottom of the pile. There was no way any of the girls would be tempted to borrow that one.

Ron put the uncharacteristic spring in Hermione's step as they descended to the Great Hall for lunch down to her apparently successful S.P.E.W. mission.

Hermione herself was having a very difficult time concealing the adrenaline rush her success had brought on. She could not remember the last time she'd been so exalted by risk – though she hid it she was usually terrified on Harry's latest adventure.

But this – her own success from her own risk – this was intoxicating and the thrill of it invaded her steps and curved her mouth into a tiny smile.

Draco's Slytherin senses pricked up the moment he saw that self-satisfied grin on Granger's smug little face.

'That Mudblood's up to something…' he muttered to himself.

'What?' said Nott, loudly.

Draco toyed with the idea of telling him about Granger's 'diary' for sheer vindictive pleasure (no-one should be allowed to get over his wrath so quickly) but glancing at Nott, decided not to as the customary wave of disgust washed over him like so much scummy ditch water.

Nott made a particularly unsavoury picture today – a half-chewed vegetable creeping out of the corner of his mouth like a living thing, he gawped at Draco.

'Eat up now Nott, growing boys need their strength.' Draco told him.

Nott recovered his composure somewhat rapidly and treated his blond haired neighbour to an oh-so-terrifying 'I'll tell my Daddy' look, filled with all the menace of a toothless rabbit.

Not without his own special brand of derision, Draco flashed him a sickly sweet smile and turned away. Suddenly his soup didn't seem so appealing. He decided to abandon dinner as any kind of enjoyable addition to the day, and made an unobtrusive exit under the cover of a large group of Ravenclaws – all headed, funnily enough, for the library.

Unfortunately, as Draco realised when they passed though the great doors of the Hall, someone else had also hitched a ride with the unwittingly obliging Ravenclaws.

Granger.

Draco heaved an inner sigh. This day just wasn't getting any better.

'Rat' thought Hermione immediately, when she saw the face – then ' Ha! But I know something you don't!'.

The perfect person to gloat over – he didn't have a blind clue about her. Even though she knew it was stupid even to think it, she wanted to shove her anticipated triumph under his nose, just to prove to him who would have the last laugh – to see his expression of dismay –

Then he'd really see how much that pathetic insult of his really meant. Her blood ran with magic and she'd prove it, even if he never knew.

But she was getting carried away in her triumphant mood – letting her euphoria run away with her. Now was the time for restraint – so she appeased herself with a superior smile burnt into his surprised grey eyes, and a purposeful march in the opposite direction.

Leaving tea early for the library was by not unusual for Hermione, but today there was special reason.

There were preparations to make, which could not be done at any other time.

First, however, a detour.

Checking the corridor ahead and behind her, she melted into the shadows of an alcove.

'I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.'

_Thank you Padfoot, Moony and Prongs – sod you Wormtail_… thought Hermione – and this time she really _was_ up to absolutely no good, the implications of which would become apparent to the rest of Hogwarts imminently.

There was a little girl… 

Hermione located a special little room, dear to the hearts of many – including Fred and George Weasley, The Marauders, various pranksters of lesser fame, and of course, Peeves the Poltergeist.

Before entering the office of Filch the caretaker, Hermione cast the illusion spell she had spent hours perfecting over herself. It was complicated – not good for use in emergencies - and obscure to the majority of the wizarding population, as it would only fool Muggle and Squib eyes. Its usage had declined in the previous century as the Muggle and wizarding worlds drifted further apart.

She had found it in the back of an old textbook while studying for her History of Magic OWL, and after she had stumbled across it again in a Muggle Studies lesson, she had decided it was fate and added it to her growing list of possibly useful spells for Harry and the DA.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door. It did not open, which was both a good and inconvenient thing – the first because it meant Filch was not around, the second because valuable time would have to be wasted undoing the lock.

Hermione knew from both 'Hogwarts: A History' and personal experience that none of the of the schools doors could be unlocked by a simple 'Alohamora' – if something was to be kept out of reach at this school, then you could be sure it would be.

This, combined with Filch's conspiracy theory that it was the sole purpose of every student who entered the school to raid his office, ensured a tight magical lockdown on the room Hermione was about to break and enter.

She tried all the lock charms she knew (which were numerous) and some general disenchantments, just in case.

After the sixth, she sighed in frustration and checked the Marauder's Map again. Filch was prowling corridors in the fourth floor, nowhere near her.

'Conceited old man, as if some of us don't come here to actually _learn_, not break into his stupid office' she muttered to herself indignantly, conveniently forgetting that she was at that moment attempting to do just that.

She froze. Was that footsteps?

She checked the Map – 'Pansy Parkinson' rather misrepresented on the parchment as a small dot, was about to round the next corner and Hermione was in plain view.

The would-be trespasser hurriedly replaced her wand and parchment in her robes.

'Oh, hello, Pansy!' who just stared at the bright tone that greeted her.

'Have you seen Mr Filch, by any chance?' Might as well add some gratuitous formality for good measure.

Pansy shook her head slowly from side to side, as if she wasn't quite sure what she was disagreeing with.

An awful temptation struck Hermione then, one that was quite impossible to ignore.

'It's just that I think one of Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts must have escaped'

'I saw it going down into the dungeons by Professor Snape's classroom, and I thought the caretaker ought to know.'

Pansy paled and looked uncertainly in the direction se had been headed – towards the dungeons – then began to retreat back the way she had come, the apprehensive look on her face growing with each step.

Hermione smiled sweetly at her, and waved a goodbye.

Dear god, she loved to let her bad side out sometimes. It didn't see the light of day much - and definitely not around Harry and Ron. But she couldn't deny the change felt good…

As Pansy disappeared around the corner, Hermione double checked the Map gain – any more intrusions would be most unwelcome at this point – an the resorted to her final solution – the only thing she had ever known to circumvent magical protections on a lock.

She picked it.

With enchanted lock picks, naturally, and expertise courtesy of summers and Christmases spent in the company of the proprietors of 'Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes'. Where ordinary metal would have melted on contact with the lock, the slim metal pick Hermione drew from the packet she held did nothing of the sort.

As the door swung open, she thanked her lucky stars that she'd not been so prissy as to pass up the chance to learn such an apparently vital life-skill.

So, stealth.

Hermione the 'clumsy' (she scowled at the thought of Malfoy – now _there_ was an error she'd be glad not to of having to stare at) crept into the darkened office.

She'd only heard Harry and Ron describe it from their second year visit, never been here herself – thankfully.

The smell was terrible, how you imagined Gregory Goyle would smell if you left them out in the sun all day.

Hermione shuddered to think what she might stumble across in here if she didn't watch her step.

As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she spied a dusty old cabinet behind a rotting desk.

If it had had to be described by a metaphor, it would probably be best compared to a cave troll.

Hermione took a deep breath and tugged open the doors to peer inside.

It was breathtakingly monstrous.

As if the manacles hanging in size order were not enough (some small enough for First Years, she noted, with a shudder of disgust) the sheer scale of the thing, and the misery that permeated the misty air around it. It spoke of generations of impounded treasures, once beloved, then seized in a fit of wanton rage by the caretaker from hell…

And then there were the dung-bombs.

Stuffed in every corner, any niche between trick quills, chess sets, balls, brooms (broken, of course – though before or after their committal into the care of Filch was a matter for speculation), a pink cauldron (colour still unmistakeable through the grime) bottles and potions and various species of mould, several boxes of Canary Creams, even what appeared to be a golden snitch – there were dung-bombs _everywhere_.

They were probably a large contributor to the smell, Hermione thought.

She cautiously collected five into the oilskin bag she had brought – then after a moment's consideration added another for good measure.

Turning to leave, Hermione realised two things - one, that there was a mangy cat standing in the open doorway, surveying her through glowing eyes – and the other that she could hear Filch's muttering voice growing closer and closer.

Hermione panicked, froze. Stock still just to the left of the still open cabinet, she waited for fate to come.

It arrived in the doorway, dark a Lucifer and muttering like a man possessed. Which was really nothing unusual for Filch the caretaker.

Mrs Norris meowed.

Filch stopped, noticing the open door. His gaze travelled up, past the rotten desk, beyond the chewed and battered old armchair, across the shelves that occupied the back wall, and lit on the open cupboard.

'Well, Mrs Norris!' the words slithered from Filch's mouth like worms from wet earth.

'What have we here? Some students, paying a visit?' his eyes glittered with malicious excitement, and Hermione steeled herself for the worst.

But it never came. Filch's shifty eyes flickered around the room, apparently seeking for traces of the 'visitors'.

And swept straight past Hermione. It was like he couldn't even see her…

_Of course!_ She thought. _The spell!_ Well, at least now she knew it worked.

Now she only had the small problem of getting out of here in one piece.

The caretaker continued his monologue with relish, voice growing more gleeful as it went on.

'A break-in! Dumbeldore will have to listen this time! Overworked, underpaid, disrespected, and now broken into! Them filthy little students'll not know what's hit 'em!'

Then a thought seemed to strike him –

'But let's see, Mrs Norris - 'ave the little rats taken anything?'

He tramped over to the grisly cupboard – Hermione stopped breathing altogether as he flung the doors wide and proceeded to dive into the husk of carpentry.

She held her breath for a full five minutes as Filch rooted through the cupboard like a pig after truffles, occasionally throwing something behind him onto the desk.

Once she had to duck as a bag of fake Gringotts coins nearly hit her during a more frenzied moment of Filch's search.

After what seemed like an eternity to Hermione he gave up, muttering under his breath about 'damn students' and 'taking liberties'.

Then Hermione actually saw the thought occur to him:

'But what,' he said, yellowing teeth bared as a malevolent grin dawned on his face

'What if they did take something, Mrs Norris?'

He extracted a bottle of fire-whisky from his desk.

'What if it was _this_?' Malicious pleasure lit his gnarled features

'Eh! He'd have to listen then, wouldn't he!'

He jerked himself out of his seat, and before she knew it he was advancing on her, clearly in search of somewhere to hide the wretched thing.

She thrust herself out of his path – but unfortunately haste does not breed caution, and as she stepped back, Hermione knocked a wooden crate. For a single moment, she thought it might settle.

And then it came crashing to the floor with an almighty thud.

Filch stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the box that had seemingly flown straight at him.

All was deathly silent.

Then: 'Who's 'ere? Show yerself!' screeched the caretaker, eyes darting around the room, still missing Hermione, who was plastered against the back wall of the office, not daring to breathe, let alone move.

But Filch was moving closer, and sooner or later he would reach out _– and no invisibility spell is impervious to touch_, thought Hermione.

She desperately searched her surroundings for something, anything – and then she saw it.

The bag of fake coins lay on the cold stone at her feet, and in a flash of inspiration, Hermione saw her solution.

She took a deep breath, and threw all caution to the winds. Ducking to scoop up the bag of coins, she began pelting them at Filch, cackling madly, just like –

'PEEVES!' screamed Filch, losing all vestige of composure as he scurried backwards, arms raised to protect his face.

Hermione glimpsed the path to freedom he had left and rocketed through the gap, with no regard for obstacles, still flinging coins behind her as she closed the distance between herself and the doorway.

Just in time, as it turned out. Somehow, in the mad dash after his invisible assailant, ('I'll 'av yer out fer this, yer grimy little ghoul') Filch had managed to trip over his precious Mrs Norris and fall onto a box of very old dung-bombs of unknown origin.

The ensuing dull boom blasted Hermione the remaining few feet out into the corridor, and was heard for at least a half-mile radius around the castle.

Hermione stumbled out of the wreckage, spluttering from the dust, fingers in her ears a useless barricade against the deafening cacophony of Mrs Norris' yowls.

She did the only thing she could: ran.

She _had_ to get away from here before she was found, and she _had_ to get cleaned up.

Mercifully the bag containing the dungbombs she had appropriated was still slung over her shoulder.

Hermione ran up the staircase to her right, and paused near a broom cupboard to take stock.

Injuries: a few bruises, that was for sure, but nothing broken – she tenativeley touched her face – there, a scratch, bleeding but essentially superficial.

Good. Where to from here? A bathroom sounded appealing – shower, change, and back in the common room before anyone knew she had been anywhere but the library…

Oh Bugger. The library.

_Come on, Hermione, the adrenaline's still going,_ she told herself_. Just one more little thing to do._

She almost snorted out load at the understatement.

She pushed herself off the wall and made her way more carefully this time to the house of books.

On arrival she found the heavy oak door still open – Mrs Pince must have left in a hurry to see what all the fuss was about.

Hermione crept inside – a few books and quills lay abandoned on the long tables, but the room was empty of human presence.

Perfect.

Out came the dungbombs, courtesy of Mr Filch, and Hermione sent a silent apology to whoever guarded books in heaven for what she was about to do.

Then she threw every last one of those six hard won prizes into the depths of the library, and for the second time that day, bolted out of an open door, this time pausing to slam the door shut on her way.

Listening to the dull boom, she decided that a hasty exit was probably well advised, and ran for it.

She didn't stop until she reached the Prefect's bathroom and flung herself inside, checking the way she had come for pursuers. Satisfied that she had not been followed, she shut the door and leant back against it, closing her eyes, and sighed with relief.

Finally, peace.

She opened her eyes.

And found herself confronted with Draco Malfoy, clad only in a towel.

End Chapter 3

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